The Path of the Sword

by Remi Michaud

  “Sorry Darren. I got caught up in the party.”

  Winking at Erin, Darren said, “I spose you got caught all right.”

  Erin laughed. “Oh you're such a souse Darren.”

  “Aye that he is,” Trig said, joining them. Wryly, he added, “Sorry if he's bothering you.”

  “I am not!”

  “It's no bother,” Jurel assured both. “We were just talking. I'm always glad to see friends.”

  Darren snickered but it was Trig who spoke. “Sure. Just talking. You hear that Darren? We'll let you...talk...in peace. Alone.” He winked.

  Was everyone insane? All that winking and leering was bound to hurt someone.

  As he steered Darren away, he cast a strange glance at Jurel. Certainly there was amusement, but there was something else too. Sorrow? As if he had lost something dear to him and could not quite remember where to look for it? He wanted to ask, to get up and follow and talk to the men who had once been his staunchest friends. But Erin held him there, not with any physical contact, but with something more ethereal that was a lot more powerful than shackles.

  “What was that all about?” Jurel asked.

  “I think maybe they see the same thing your father saw.” Erin's voice was so quiet he barely heard it.

  “And what do they see?” Jurel leaned forward, enrapt by those eyes.

  “Hopefully, the same thing you're seeing now.”

  He felt he could lose himself in those eyes. He felt he could cast away his body and fall into the light of dawn. He could stay in there forever, never surfacing, breathing in that light. What had ever made him think that leaving was a good idea? He leaned forward a little more, heard her breath hitch, causing her to twitch like a skittish doe. She mirrored him, leaning forward and as her eyes closed, she tilted her head and parted her lips. Heart hammering, he closed his own eyes. He felt a light touch, just the barest graze on his lip. He tasted honey and spices. He tasted wine and something he could not identify, something that was just Erin as her breath tickled, hot and moist on his cheek.

  I am never leaving this place. I will stay here forever. Stay with her forever. I will stay until-

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Galbin's voice broke in like an intruder.

  Jurel jerked back, his eyes snapping open in time to see Erin do likewise. There were blooms of color on her cheeks and her bosom heaved in the most distracting way. They looked at each other, eyes locked in some spell, before she tittered nervously, and broke the trance. As they turned their attention to Galbin, who now stood with his hands above his head waiting for the din to die down, Jurel saw Galbin wink at him. As the gathered crowd slowed, quieted, Jurel tried to do the same to his racing heart which seemed intent on coming through his ribs to flop helplessly about on the floor. His glance happened on his father who stared back with an undecipherable expression, one that looked very similar to the one Trig wore when he had led Darren away, but more intense.

  When the din had reduced enough and the only sound remaining was the howling of the wind outside, like a thousand wolves under a full moon, Galbin lowered his hands.

  “Hello everyone! I'm glad you all could make it to our little get together-”

  “And where else would we be?” A voice called out. “This is our bedroom after all!”

  Galbin smiled as a ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. “Yes, well, I'm sure most of you will end up sleeping here anyway—on the floors, on the tables. Under the tables.”

  A cheer went up in the crowd and tankards thunked together all around.

  “Anyway!” Galbin called out and the room quieted again. “I don't want to interrupt your revelries for long,” another sly wink at Jurel, “so I will make this quick.” He raised his tankard over his head. “Here's to a fine year past and to a wonderful year ahead. May you all work like mules to make me rich.”

  Laughter and cheers mingled with a shouted chorus of “Here here!” as once again tankards clattered against each other.

  “I also wanted to say-”

  He did not get to finish. From outside, there came a great splintering noise as of thunder, a loud cracking that seemed to make even the gale pause and take notice. It was followed by a thud that made the hall shake, a deep shuddering thump that caused bottles and tankards to rattle and clank against each other. Several gasps rose in the crowd and Galbin spun toward the sound as if he thought he could see through the walls to what had caused it.

  “What in blazes?” he muttered.

  With astonishing speed, he bounded across the hall to the exit. Unlatching the door, he staggered when it flew open, driven by winds and snow that chilled the entire hall within heartbeats, and then he was out the door and gone, with Daved at his heels.

  Throwing his overcoat on, he glanced apologetically at Erin.

  “Go on Jurel. I'll be here when you get back.” A sly smile stole across her features. “After all, we have an unfinished conversation to get back to.”

  He flashed her a tight grin and ran to join his father and Galbin who were already in the teeth of the storm. As he rushed to catch up with them, so too did his whirling thoughts rush to catch up with his emotions. Frustration at being thwarted, at having to stow away the heat that threatened to engulf him, vied with a kind of dazed wonder, a euphoric elation. He had to stay. How could he not? For as long as fate permitted, he would stay on the farm with Erin and explore these new feelings, plumb them like a sailor plumbs the depths of a river. With her, he would be happy, no matter how boring life on the farm could be. He would be happy.

  Hours later, he would think bitterly that fate, if there is such a thing, is fickle indeed.

  But that would be later. Now, he did not realize he was smiling until Daved broke roughly into his thoughts.

  “Stop mooning lad!” he hollered over the shrieking wind. “There'll be time enough for her later.”

  Pulling his coat tighter, he nodded and followed the two men as they fought their way through a storm the likes of which he had never before seen. Icy winds numbed his face within a dozen paces and snow driven so hard it hurt turned the night a blurry gray. The ground was already covered with drifts that rose and fell like a stormy sea and the footing was treacherous as they went.

  Soon, the source of the ominous sound became apparent. The main barn loomed into view, the snow seeming to part like a curtain, and even in the dim gray light they saw the massive oak tree that had stood beside that barn for as long as the barn had stood, and for centuries more before, laying on the ground, felled like a giant warrior. The roof of the barn had sustained considerable damage: like a desperate death strike, the tree had impaled the roof with one massive limb which still jutted from a gaping hole in the tiles, one ragged, splintered edge rising into the sky, so that the barn looked like some unlucky jouster dying after his opponent's lance found its way through a crack in his armor. Jurel gasped in shock, coughing when snow drove its way into his throat.

  “The livestock!” Galbin cried, his words torn away by the wind until only shards were left to reach anyone's ears. “The animals can't survive that exposure!” He spun and barked orders with the efficiency of a drill sergeant though his eyes were a little wild. “Jurel, get the other hands. We need to cover that. Daved, go and see about space in the other barns for the livestock. I'm going into that heap to survey the damage.”

  The three men scattered. Jurel ran back the way they had come and stumbled through the door to the hall, pushed by the wind. Panting, he stopped and stared at the faces that watched him expectantly.

  “That big oak fell on the main barn. There's a huge hole in the roof and the livestock is exposed to the weather. Galbin needs all of you out there. My father is going to see to the livestock.”

  Men were jumping to their feet and donning their coats before his mad gush of words halted, rushing past into the storm like a hive of bees roused to alertness by a threatening invader. A din had arisen again in the hall, but this time there was no joy in it. It was an
anxious hum, a fearful murmur.

  He found Erin quickly enough and saw the disappointment in her eyes, like a dark cloud passing over the sun. She smiled at him, trying to hide her sadness and blew him a kiss. He inclined his head and ran back into the maelstrom.

  A stream of curses viciously delivered by an enraged Galbin greeted him as he entered the main barn, a potent overtone to the manic cacophony the livestock was kicking up. When Jurel reached the bottom of the ladder that led up into the loft, he understood why. The large man stood amid a jumble of broken roofing tiles and cracked timber in the middle of a miniature snow storm under a hole that gaped as black as a predator's maw. The barn creaked alarmingly, groaning as though in mortal pain.

  When the sounds of men arriving drew Galbin's attention, he glared down darkly. “Jurel get the horses to the other barn before they kick this one into even more pieces.”

  Jurel jumped to comply and more orders were barked, orders to join Jurel in moving the frantic animals, orders to gather the materials necessary to effect repairs, orders to get moving. Everyone jumped to frantic action—it may have been New Year, the one holiday where no one was required to work, but not a soul argued, not a soul grumbled.

  For the sake of expediency, he forewent the bit, instead making do with simple loops of rope around the necks of the frightened animals, and he led them two at a time through the raging storm. The horses balked and threw their heads, whinnying like terrified children as soon as they felt the first bite of cold wind but he held on, had to nearly drag them through the growing drifts of snow before leaving them with Daved and the three other hands who where clearing space for them in the smaller barn. It was frantic work made nearly unbearable by the wind and snow that chafed raw any exposed flesh; within minutes, even as a sheen of sweat coated him, he was shivering.

  When the last of the horses were moved, he returned to the loft to see Galbin and his men struggling with the massive limb still wedged in the supporting rafters. A dozen other men were shepherding the animals that remained; half the herd of cattle, the chickens and several pigs, animals that would not fit in the other barn already full to bursting, were all being re-situated at the far end of this barn where there was as yet minimal snow and less chance of the roof falling on them, though the wind still found ways to kick up eddies of dust.

  “Galbin,” he called up to the loft, “if I can get two or three men to help, we can erect a makeshift wall across the loft using the spare rolls of canvas. That would protect the livestock until-”

  Without turning away from his work, Galbin shook his head and interrupted. “Good thought lad, but no. We're going to use the canvas to cover this bloody hole as soon as we can get this bloody limb free. We need to effect repairs on the roof before everything else, before the thing caves in on all of us. Give us a hand, would you?”

  As if agreeing, the structure groaned again, a deep grating sound that set Jurel's teeth on edge. He clambered up the ladder, and stood surveying the mess. Shattered bits of roof tile littered the loft and spattered the hay, along with spears of ripped timber. The hole itself was a ragged mess of roof lattice like teeth, and drooping boards rent jagged. Three of the rafters had been snapped clean through, a fourth was cracked so it was near useless, and the roof had begun to sag dangerously. The whole thing creaked again, alarmingly, shuddering, juddering screeches that vibrated along the fat beams, warning ever more urgently that at any moment, the whole thing would tear itself apart and crash down on the heads of anyone unfortunate enough to witness it. He began to understand Galbin's hastiness.

  Once the hole was covered, they could set to work installing temporary braces to hold up the weakened structure. But first, they needed to get rid of that limb. Following Galbin's lead, he set his shoulder to the rough bark between two others and heaved. They grunted with the effort, their muscles strained to their very limits but there was not so much as a twitch from their stubborn foe.

  “Try again,” panted Galbin. “Ready? One...two...three...heave.”

  And again they strained, muscles trembling, teeth gritted, faces twisted into grimaces of exertion. Flashes of blue light crossed Jurel's vision like fireflies. There was a creak, a trembling of wood, but no other effect.

  “It's no use sir,” Jurel said. “It's wedged too firmly.”

  With a scowl and another stream of acidic curses, Galbin nodded.

  “You're right. I wonder if we can get it out the same way it went in? I wonder...”

  “Sir? I don't understand?”

  Perplexed, Jurel watched Galbin watch the tree limb, his sweaty face mottled red, with a look of concentration so deep he seemed almost in a trance. Below, men were preparing the first of the braces, long timbers attached by cross-members that would reach from the ground to the roof and hold the failing frame up. As the silence stretched in the loft, Jurel started to ask again what it was Galbin meant but even as he opened his mouth to speak, Galbin ran across the loft to the roof hatch, the trap door that was used during the summer months for easy access to repair broken tiles. But never during winter months. It was suicide.

  He climbed two rungs before Jurel could speak around his shock.

  “You can't be thinking of going on the roof.”

  “Yes I can lad, and I am. When I get up there, you'll push with the other men while I pull.”

  “But it's ice up there. If you don't misstep, the wind'll blow you off.”

  “I'll be fine. Just do your part and it'll be over before you know it.”

  “Galb, you fool,” Lon shouted over Jurel's shoulder. “You're mad.”

  But it was already too late. Even as Lon spoke, Galbin's feet were disappearing into the night above.

  For a breathless moment, Jurel thought his heart would stop. He waited to hear the inevitable scream, thought he could hear the inevitable crunch of bones from below. He waited, trembling, and the other hands huddled close as they all stared up at the ragged hole in the roof. Time passed. Too much time, it seemed. Galbin should have been there. He should have-

  Galbin's head poked over the edge above them, smiling a wild smile like a man who had just faced down a very hungry lion and lived to tell the tale.

  “Told you I'd be fine. Now get your shoulders in there and let's get this thing done. It's cold and I want a drink.”

  Jurel did not need to be told twice. Again, the hands set their shoulders, and again Galbin urged them to push. Jurel's shoulder was on fire and his legs began to ache, but he pushed and even when he thought he might pass out, he pushed all the harder.

  The branch moved. An inch. Maybe.

  “Rest,” called Galbin.

  Jurel and the others let their muscles go lax; their pent breaths exploded from them.

  “That's the ticket boys,” Galbin exulted. “We got the bitch by the tail now. One more like that and it'll break free. Tell everyone below to clear the way. There's no way this thing is coming back out here so it's going to fall to the ground.”

  When the instructions were relayed and the men below had scattered like ants who saw the foot of a man dropping toward them, they reset their shoulders. One more.

  “Ready?”

  Grunts and nods. Galbin set his feet and wrapped his meaty hands around the limb.

  “Then lift damn you. Lift.”

  They strained. They heaved, pushing with every last bit of strength that remained. Above, Jurel heard a creak as the roof shifted, a sound like rusty hinges.

  “Keep going boys,” Galbin rasped.

  There was another shudder as the tree limb slowly began to rise, followed by the sound of tortured wood giving way. The limb twitched as if some tender spot had been poked by a needle. With a groan, like a mortally injured soldier, the limb began to slide, slowly at first, in fits and starts, until with a final cracking of timbers and a squeal like a petrified girl, the log broke free and plunged to the ground, landing with a resounding boom.

  Shouts went up and Jurel looked up to Galbin with a victorious s
mile on his face.

  It froze as he went cold, oh so cold.

  There stood Galbin, his eyes wide as saucers, returning Jurel's look, his mouth forming an O of surprise. His arms pinwheeled desperately as he teetered on the brink.

  Time stopped. The sound of the driving wind died and the driving snow seemed to hang in the air like motes of white dust. The hands with him gasped. One shouted, “NO!” but Jurel did not hear him. Galbin was there, framed, as if he was a portrait, by the ragged edges of the hole.

  And then he was gone. A gut-wrenching shriek cut through the air, made the wind seem timid by comparison, but was too suddenly cut off.

  For a moment, Jurel stood rooted to the spot, his mind a blank slate. They had gotten the limb out. They had succeeded. That was that. They should be getting the canvas up, bracing the broken rafters and then going for that drink, right? He must have seen wrong. The storm was playing tricks on him. Galbin was right then making his way gingerly to the hatch. That was all. That was it.

  Time restarted and the world rushed back in around him slamming him in the chest with a physical force.

  “Galbin,” Jurel screamed.

  He spun and raced to the ladder, slid down, ignoring the splinters that wedged themselves deep in his hands like thorns. Men were glancing at him, curiously at first, but with budding alarm when the other hands followed behind Jurel as fast as they could.

  “Galbin fell off the roof,” Jurel yelled when some hand—he did not know who it was, he did not care—inquired what the hubbub was.

  He sprinted from the barn, nearly knocking the door off its hinges as he went, sliding in the snow as he rounded the corner closely followed by the horrified hands. His father was there, just dropping to his knees in front of the inert mound of coat and cotton, strangely colored—Galbin wore a light brown coat, why was it so dark?—that rested beside the fallen tree.

  As Jurel skidded to a halt on his knees beside his father, Daved rolled Galbin's still form to face upward.

  “Galbin, talk to me,” Daved called and Jurel quavered at the horror in his father's voice. “Wake up.”